


Blackberry Valley

by loveheartlover



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Slow Burn, Spooky, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-09 04:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16442873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveheartlover/pseuds/loveheartlover
Summary: Escaping to his family's holiday cottage on a bitter October evening seems the perfect plan when Phil's life starts falling apart.Finding a mysterious stranger in a hedge was most definitely not part of that plan.





	Blackberry Valley

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter could be read as a stand alone fic.
> 
> I plan for it to be a slow build strangers to lovers, with a healthy dose of fake relationships, magic, and seaside romance thrown in. Warnings, ratings, tags etc. will update with the fic.
> 
> It will not be (serious) angst or an unhappy ending. Promise.

A bitter, crisp wind tugs Phil’s scarf loose from his neck, and it billows out behind him. Before he is able to catch the ends, a second gust sends the entire scarf soaring. It flies back across the field he’d just trudged across, before disappearing out of view behind a single bare tree. Phil groans but obediently turns to follow it. His mum bought him that scarf. Mud sucks at his wellies with every step and makes each lift of his leg a chore, but he just shoves his hands further into his coat pockets and hopes the scarf has caught on something. There are only more fields in that direction, and he doesn’t fancy chasing it for the rest of the afternoon. He’s already losing the sun- but that’s not really surprising, the tendrils of night have been creeping in earlier with each passing day. It’s not even 5pm and Phil can tell he is going to be walking back to the cottage in darkness.

He starts to wish he had brought his phone, but in a moment of anger he’d left it on the side in the kitchen. Really, he was lucky he’d remembered to bring his keys.

Ducking under the low-lying branches of the tree, Phil spots a flash of red vanish behind one of the tall hedges lining the edge of the next field. He squelches towards it, before ducking down and briefly peering into the hedge. How on earth did it even…?

Phil slips a hand into the hole, gritting his teeth against the thorny twigs that bite at his fingers-

and promptly yanks his hand back, staggering until he overbalances and falls onto his bum on the floor.

Heart hammering, Phil stands back up, brushing off mud from the back of his coat as he cautiously steps towards the hole. He bends down and once again peers into it, holding his breath.

Yup, that’s definitely a hand.

A bone-white hand, stretching up within the hedge, long brambles wrapped around it like bracelets.

Fuck.

Phil doesn’t know what you’re meant to do when you find a hand (and presumably body) in a hedge in the middle of a row of fields in Devon, but he’s seen enough episodes of CSI to know not to touch anything. He pats at the pockets of his coat uselessly, in case his phone has magically teleported from the cottage, and then begins looking around hopefully for a more adulty adult to come and tell him what to do.

When that fails, he looks back in the hole.

And screams.

The hand moved. Phil didn’t see it move, but he knows it must have, because the outstretched fingers have curled down into a fist. It’s holding something now.

The thing glints in the last remnants of sunlight, a little silver peeking out between the fingers. Every horror movie Phil has ever watched runs through his head, but he slowly reaches his own hand into the hole. His entire internal monologue has become a chorus of “idiot, stupid idiot, never put your hand in a hole with a haunted hand, dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb.”

Why is he doing this? This is a matter for the police. Maybe the hand was a fist all along and he just never realised, he _was_ in shock at finding it in the first place. Phil should just walk back to the cottage and call the police and tell them what he found. That’s exactly what he should-

The hand is freezing, but soft to the touch. Phil’s amazed he isn’t gagging. He gently eases the fist open until a silver locket falls into his outstretched hand, which he draws back through to look at. He can make out tiny runes engraved around the outer edge on both sides, but he doesn’t know enough to know what they mean. Who even wrote with runes? Was it Vikings? Anglo-Saxons? He can practically hear his Year 8 history teacher cackling.

Right, now it is definitely time to call the police. Phil hangs the locket around his neck, tucking it under his jumper so it presses against his skin. That’ll keep it safe until he can give it to the police, right? That’s why he took it away in the first place, in case it got lost in the hedge before anyone could find it. It might be important. He’s just protecting it.

Phil is an awful liar. Especially when lying to himself.

He chances one final look into the hole.

The hole looks back.

Dilated black pupils stare out through the brambles, a tiny sliver of brown iris just barely visible to reassure Phil he is looking at human eyes. The whole hedge shudders, and then that same soft hand slips through to grab at Phil’s coat, fingers clawing and desperate.

Something, some deep primal instinct to defend the hurt despite his heart being in his throat, kicks in, and Phil shoves the branches of the hedge apart to let him wrap his arms around a pale figure. The man is tall and lanky, and completely stark-bollock naked. Thorns graze his skin as Phil helps ease him out of the hedge, but there are no marks from however the hell he got in there in the first place.

“You’re all right,” Phil says uselessly, “don’t worry, you’re fine. Come on, out we come.”

He sounds like his mother, wittering on about anything and everything to keep the man focused on something other than his predicament. “Goodness me, bit chilly to be out without socks, couldn’t stand it myself. Do you like socks? I’ve always been a sock person, love a good sock I do.”

_Shut up, just shush Phil._

“What were you doing in the hedge then?” He asks, shrugging off his coat and wrapping it around the stranger’s shoulders. His mind is still in CSI mode. He needs to get the man back to the cottage, and then he’ll call the police and a taxi and take them to… is there even a hospital near here? There must be, but Phil can’t think of where it would be.

Google will know. Google knows everything.

Maybe it will be able to tell him how a boy can appear inside a hedge from nowhere, without any scratches or bruises, looking for all the world like he grew there as naturally as a blackberry.

The man isn’t talking. He stares blankly at Phil for a minute, needing Phil to guide his arms into the sleeves of the coat and fasten the front up for him. Then he slowly raises his hand up to brush against Phil’s cheek, head titled curiously like a puppy as he rubs his fingers down along Phil’s jaw before dropping his arm back to his side.

“I’m Phil. What’s your name?”

Phil’s coat is long enough to cover the man to mid-thigh, and once he’s sure the man won’t fall over if Phil lets go of him for a second, he begins pulling off his wellies and helps the stranger into them. He’s not sure about the fit, but it’ll be better than him walking back bare foot. Phil is already dreading doing it in socks.

Still the man doesn’t speak. Phil begins to panic. What if he’s deaf? Phil only knows three words in sign language- toilet, squid, and thank you. None of which are exactly helpful in this situation.

Oh god.

Maybe he’s traumatised. Maybe something horrible has happened: he _was_ naked in a hedge in the middle of nowhere.

“Come on, we’re going to go this way,” Phil says, pointing towards the setting sun. “I’m staying in a cottage down the valley, having a bit of a holiday. Are you local? Or a tourist like me? Only you don’t call us tourists round here, do you? The lady in the corner shop said we’re called grockles. I like that word. Grockle. Grockle. Gro _ckle_.” He laughs nervously.

The man can’t walk, his legs are shaking too much. He’s like Bambi, knock-kneed and helpless. Phil encourages him to lean on his shoulder. “I’ll help you, don’t worry. We’ve got this,” he says. The man frowns, the first real expression he’s shown, and then he plunges his fist into the hedge. When he pulls it out, he is clasping Phil’s red scarf.

Huh.

“Thank you?” Phil offers.

It really isn’t the strangest thing to have happened today. In the last hour. In the last five minutes, really. Phil decides his new friend needs the extra warmth more than he does, and wraps the scarf around his neck, tucking the ends into the coat protectively. “Off we go then, come on.”

They gradually start to trudge towards the cottage, Phil having to work very hard to keep them from veering into the various fences and ditches along the way. The stranger really doesn’t have any motor skills at all, he can barely keep his eyes open and keeps slumping heavily against Phil’s side. Darkness wins the battle, and night falls when they are still out in the fields. With no light guide to them, Phil has to rely heavily on touch and sound to get them home. He crashes into a number of trees as they get through the final layer of woods which separate the valley. Phil angles his body to try and take the brunt of the force each time, wincing as twigs dig into his skin through the thin layers of jumper and t-shirt. 

The ivy-covered walls of the holiday cottage come into view at last, lit by the first glimpse of a full moon peeking out from behind some clouds.  “All right, here we go, this is me,” Phil chirps, guiding them both through the picket fence gate and up to the front door. A gleaming bronze 13 stands out against the chipped, peeling blue paint. Phil props the man against the wall as he digs through the pockets of the coat for his keys, blushing at his own awkwardness. “Sorry, sorry, didn’t think about this bit when I let you wear the coat,” he stammers, relief flooding his features when he closes a hand around the keys.

It takes him three tries to get the door open, the aged door frame stubbornly clinging on, requiring a good shove from his shoulder before the wood gives and he can see the hallway. “Kitchen is straight ahead at the end,” he says. “There’s a toilet through the door to our right just here, before the stairs, and a proper bathroom upstairs.”

Phil turns on the lights as he helps the man through to the kitchen, getting him sat on one of the rickety old chairs. He automatically goes to turn the kettle on as well, fussing as he looks for mugs and tea bags. “Um, right,” he says. “So. I’ll get us both a brew, and then I’ll give the police a call and ask them to come help, right?”

The man shakes his head, no.

Phil freezes. “Sorry?”

Another shake of the head, more vehement this time, and the man reaches his arm out to take Phil’s hand. He squeezes it, eyes huge and pleading.

“I don’t… what do you want me to do?” Phil asks, voice verging on desperate. He doesn’t have a Plan B. He had barely thought through Plan A beyond ‘call police and hand stranger over to someone better qualified to deal with whatever has happened.’

Phil worries at his lip as he splashes milk into the mugs, hand hovering over the sugar pot before taking another look at his companion. If there was ever a time for sugar, now was it. In fact… Phil digs through the cupboard until he finds a half empty packet of brown sugar, left over from a baking escapade from the _last_ time he was at the cottage. Sugar doesn’t go off, right? He laces both mugs with a heaping spoon of brown sugar, then sits down opposite the man, mugs on the table.

“What about the hospital? We could get a taxi and go to the hospital, let the doctors there have a look at you.”

Another shake off the head.

“Can you… look, do you remember what happened? Why you were in the bush?”

A pause, and then the man shakes his head again, frowns, nods, shakes again, and buries his face in his hands.

“Please can we go to the hospital? I’m really worried you might have hit your head, and then you could die and I really don’t want you to die in my family’s holiday cottage, they’ll go mental.” Phil’s voice inches up a few octaves by the end. He doesn’t think his parents would care one way or the other if a dead body turned up in their cottage, they haven’t stayed in it for over a decade. They’d probably just be pleased something was happening in his social life.

The man gives a sort of wriggle of his shoulders, which Phil chooses to read as a “yes I will, what a brilliant idea” wriggle, and not an “oh my god I got saved from the bush by a maniac” wriggle.

“That’s settled then,” Phil says decisively. “We’ll drink our tea, and then I’ll call a taxi to take us up to the hospital. Or,” he glances at the wellies still on the man’s feet, and then at his own filthy socks, “we’ll sort out some clothes, then call the taxi. Do you want anything to eat? I don’t have much in, but I think there’s some bread for toast, or…” Phil ends up back on his feet, digging through the cupboards. “Biscuits? Got some hobnobs last time I went down the shops, can’t beat a hobnob. We can’t go up to A&E without having eaten, could be waiting ages.”

Good to know that in a crisis, Phil can fully channel his mother.

Phil shoves a handful of biscuits towards the man, eats one himself, and offers him a nervous grin. “Don’t worry, I’m not trying to poison you, see? Oh!” His eyes fall on a notepad that he normally uses to keep track of Scrabble scores. Phil sits back down and slides the notepad across the table, along with a pencil. “Can you write?”

The man takes a tentative nibble of the biscuit, seems to deem it safe and shoves the whole thing in his mouth in one go, crunching noisily. He glances up as Phil blows on his tea to cool it before taking a sip. He does that same curious head-tilt from before, then copies, pursing his lips and blowing on his mug. He takes a too-big gulp of tea, which must scald his tongue as he yelps, shoves the mug away and shakes his head. 

Huh.

Instead, he turns his attention to the pencil and notepad. He holds the pencil awkwardly in his left hand, testing his grip several times before pressing it to the paper. Phil focuses on drinking his tea, trying to avoid staring at his unusual guest, so he ends up jumping when the notepad suddenly skids back across the table and into his line of sight. The letters on the page are too big, paying no mind to fitting within the lines, and the D and N are reversed, but Phil does recognise them.

_D  A   N    I         E L_

“Daniel? You’re Daniel?” Phil’s voice jumps with excitement. When the man nods, Phil beams. “Right, that is some excellent progress! Daniel. Or are you more of a Dan?” Daniel waves a hand back and forth, like it doesn’t matter either way. He feels like a proud parent, wants to pat Dan on the back and give him a gold star for excellent effort. Clearly, this is Phil’s calling. Saviour of the silent, spooky hedge-boys, that’s him.

Unfortunately, Phil doesn’t think there’s much of a calling for said saviours. This is the first case he’s heard of.

“Okay, Dan, you just, um, you just stay there, okay? I’m going to get us some clean clothes, and find out where the nearest hospital is.”

Phil takes the brief reprieve granted from being upstairs to stare at himself in the bedroom mirror. His hair is wind-swept, face pale and blotchy, and there is more mud than clothing visible on his person, but otherwise he looks okay. Definitely not crazy, which is what he’d been worried about. Now that he has at least a vague plan for what they are going to do next, and a name for his companion, he feels much calmer. Not okay, but not about to call his parents in tears and demand they come help him, which had been a real risk all of ten minutes ago.

He finds clean jogging bottoms, socks, t-shirts and jumpers for both of them, and an extra hoodie for himself, since he only brought one coat with him and isn’t about to take Dan back into the cold without it. He also takes a spare pair of boxers for Dan and hopes he won’t feel too awkward about sharing Phil’s underwear. Phil pauses on the landing to listen to what is happening downstairs, and when nothing jumps out as alarming, he gives himself an extra five minutes to wash his face and hands and brush his hair. He gets changed in the privacy of the bathroom, grimacing at the smell of damp and mildew. It’s a daily toss up between getting air into the bathroom to get rid of the smell, and not freezing to death: today the desire for warmth had won.

While changing, he remembers the locket. It’s still hanging around his neck. Phil fingers the chain, chewing on his lip before tucking it back under his new layers. He can’t quite work out why he doesn’t take it off. He just knows it’s important he doesn’t.

Instincts are weird like that.

When Phil gets back to the kitchen, Dan has eaten all of the biscuits and is writing in the notepad again. “Here we go, clean clothes,” Phil trills. “I didn’t know what colours you liked, so I just got the warmest stuff. The jumper has little ghosts on though, see?”

Dan examines the jumper, burying his face in the soft material for a moment before looking up at Phil and grinning. He has a nice smile. “Th-thank… you,” Dan stammers. His voice is raw and rough, like he’s been swallowing nails and not biscuits, or he just hasn’t used it in a long time. The words catch at the edges, and he takes a long pause between sounds, but it’s a voice, and it’s his, and Phil is so relieved to find out that Dan can speak that he throws his arms around him in a tight hug before his anxiety can catch up and stop him.

 Dan looks confused when Phil steps back, but he offers him another smile so he can’t have put his foot in it too much. When Dan moves to stand up, he immediately stumbles. This time Phil isn’t quick enough to catch him, having crossed the kitchen to put their mugs in the sink, and Dan ends up on the floor. “I’m so sorry, I completely forgot,” Phil says, putting his hands under Dan’s armpits to tug him up to his feet. “I’ll help you get dressed?” He adds, “if, if that’s okay with you?”

A few nods and several stubbed toes later, Phil has Dan in the living room where there’s a bit more room to manoeuvre. He starts by getting Dan sat on the threadbare, berry couch so he can help him out of the wellies, while Dan manages to get the buttons of the coat undone and shrugs it off. It means Phil is once again faced with an expanse of ivory skin, but he keeps his eyes delicately averted to try and save Dan some modesty. Dan himself doesn’t seem that concerned, chocolate eyes warm and trusting as he follows Phil’s every movement.

Between them, they get the boxers on, and Phil gives Dan the t-shirt to put on while he gets a pair of his thickest socks (this time patterned with skeletons) on Dan’s feet and tugs the jogging bottoms up his legs.

“Okay, you get that jumper on, I’m going to call a taxi and see if I can get some of the mud off the coat.” Phil puts his foot next to Dan’s curiously and shrugs. “I’ve got a pair of trainers that should fit, might be a bit roomy but it’s better than them rubbing your heels raw, right?”

“Right,” Dan says quietly, when Phil is already halfway out of the door. He takes the wellies with him and puts them by the back door to be hosed off in the morning. Phil rinses a cloth and dabs at the coat, but even he can see that it needs to go in the washing machine. Still, they need the layers, so that’ll have to wait for the morning as well. Instead Phil calls for a taxi. The one benefit of having been going to the same holiday cottage since he was tiny, is that the same taxi company has been operating since day one. Phil even gets the same driver now- old Lance picks him up from the train station, drives them out to the valley, drops him off, takes Phil in to the bigger towns around when he needs something more than fruit pastilles or a pint of milk from the corner shop, and drives him back to the train station to go home at the end of each holiday.

 Lance doesn’t seem to believe in normal working hours. He doesn’t sound bothered by Phil calling when it’s this late in the evening and promises he’ll be with them in twenty minutes. “The hospital though, lad, have you hurt yourself?” He asks, worry seeping into his voice.

“I’m fine, it’s just a friend of mine has bumped their head. I want to get them checked out.”

“A friend, eh? I don’t remember anyone being with you when I picked you up. None of my business o’course, but-“

“No, we er,” Phil laughs, running a hand through his hair, “we just sort of ran into each other when I was out walking earlier.”

“That’ll be nice for you though, having a friend around. Me and the Missus worry about you, you know. Being in that old cottage all by yourself. It was fine when you were a little ‘un and all, with your mam and dad… anyway, I’m just glad you’ve got someone. Twenty minutes, maximum. Might be less if I can get out without Carol spotting me, she’ll be full of questions.”

“I’ll see you soon,” Phil says, “give Carol my love.”

“Will do, lad, will do.”

As Phil hangs up, he spots the notepad Dan had been writing in when he came back downstairs. Drifting over to the table, he frowns when he realises just how disjointed the letters are, but it _is_ readable. It doesn’t make any sense, but it’s readable.

L  ET    KSH  C  LE  T     OD     SCR      ES

Phil puts the notepad in his hoodie pocket. The doctor might want to look at it.

“Okay Dan, taxi will be here in twenty. Anything you want to do before we go?” He calls, poking his head back in the living room. Dan is exactly where Phil left him (it isn’t like he can go anywhere, he can’t walk without help, Phil’s brain helpfully pipes up), except he has pulled his legs up onto the sofa so he’s sat cross-legged.

Dan shakes his head. He looks tired, eyes slipping closed as he curls up further into himself.

Phil hovers by his side. You don’t let people with head injuries fall asleep, even he knows that. Admittedly, Dan hasn’t got any marks on him that suggest he’s injured, but given he a) was in a bush, b) cannot remember how he got in the bush, c) cannot write properly and d) can’t walk without support, Phil thinks a head injury is the most likely culprit. He can’t let him sleep. Maybe they can try and do something about that last one though…

“Up we get, I want you to be able to walk into A&E,” Phil says, clapping his hands. Dan startles at the sound, grimacing. He looks up at Phil accusingly. “Sorry,” Phil gently but firmly takes Dan’s upper arms and pulls, until Dan finally unfolds his legs and stands up with him. Dan waivers, hands flying out to catch hold of Phil’s shoulders and steady himself.

Phil walks them backwards, until he is Dan’s only support. “Okay, I want you to let go when you feel steady,” Phil says. “I’ll stay right here, so if you go all wobbly just hold on to me again, yeah?” Something suddenly occurs to him, and he adds, “you aren’t in any pain, are you?”

“Pain?” Dan echoes. His brow is furrowed, expression back to that same blank look he had when Phil first found him.

“Yes, pain.” Phil says. “Y’know, like ouch that hurts. Does anything hurt?”

“Ouch that hurts,” Dan repeats, very softly, like he’s testing the words out.  “Does anything hurt?”

Phil watches as Dan shifts from foot to foot, before wiggling his fingers, then he releases one hand from Phil’s shoulder to touch his own head. “So?” Phil asks. “Does anything hurt? Yes? No?”

“No.”

“That’s good! Right, so back to what we were doing. Think you can let go? Stand by yourself?”

Dan hesitates, then drops his hands down to his side. His whole body trembles, but he stays standing. Phil takes a big step back and holds out both arms. “Fantastic! Dan, you’re doing so well,” he praises. “Now I want you to try and take a step towards me. You won’t fall over, I’m right here. Just a little step forwards.”

It takes a minute for Dan to lift up his left foot, but once he does his legs begin to violently shake. Phil moves to steady him, but Dan shakes his head and gets his foot back on the ground, arms moving out to help him balance. Then he moves his right foot. His legs still shake, but it’s less violent this time. Phil moves back. Dan steps forward. He keeps going, until he is chest to chest with Phil. His body is vibrating, Phil can feel it even with the inch of space between them, but he’s done it, he’s walked by himself.

“You were amazing,” Phil tells him, “seriously, I’m so impressed with you. I’ll help you if you want me to, but do you think you’ll be able to walk by yourself now?”

Dan nods, cheeks flushing pink at Phil’s praise. This close, Phil can see that Dan’s pupils are a normal size now.

The doorbell rings, a loud chirp in the silence, and Dan jumps, knees going weak at the fright. Phil helps him to find his balance, then together they walk over to the sofa. “Sit here a minute, that’s just Lance, our taxi driver. I need to get us some shoes, and the coat for you to wear. It’s all going to be okay. You’re going to be okay now. Promise.”

 


End file.
